The Wolves of Winterfell
by alarabowman
Summary: Alara Bowman had accepted that she would spend her life beneath her family's roof, unmarried and childless. She had been completely content to spend her days at the stables and busy herself with target practice, but her father had always dreamed of more for her...
1. From Shore to North

Jon was reading through the neatly stacked letters that had come for him since he had been named king. Ser Davos and Sansa joined him in sorting through his ravens, advising on responses and educating him about the duties that would be expected of him.

Never once had he dreamed he would obtain these responsibilities, and his sister and trusted adviser were attempting their best at guiding him through each day. He only wished Sam was here to give council as well.

Many houses in the north were now scrambling to claim fealty, pledging bannermen and attempting to forge alliances that would benefit them throughout winter. Many had no idea of the oncoming war from beyond the wall. A handful of these letters came from advantageous Lords who proposed a union of marriage between Jon and one of their daughters – a commitment that had been a laughable idea to him before, but was now one he'd been forced to seriously consider.

One letter in particular caught Sansa's interest.

"Lord Bowman offers his house's allegiance and his daughter, Lady Alara, for your consideration in marriage. He stresses that his daughter is _'widely regarded as one of the loveliest ladies in the seven kingdoms,_ " read Sansa with a coy smile, "and that she _'would make a fine match to bare the first prince and princesses of the North.'_ He goes on to say that she is _**very**_ gifted in horsemanship and archery, yet has all the proper refinements of highborn society.'' She extended the letter to him to read, exclaiming, "Gods, the Bowman's make what, the fifth offer this morning?''

"Can't say I've heard of the Bowmans," Jon admitted, already tired of his own ignorance with politics.

The Bowmans were a horse people, Sansa patiently explained to Jon as she reached deep into the stored information garnered from her lessons as a girl; their house banner depicted a large black stallion on a snow covered field, its head tossed with nostrils flared as sun rays faded in the distance. They were not-so distantly related to House Ryswell of the Rills, having only separated the two names in the last hundred or so years. They bred, trained and sold the best war horses in all of Westeros.

Their words were, "Strength, Straight and True.'' Jon's lips twitched at this. It brought to mind the Tullys, Sansa's mothers house. Lord Bowman had signed them proudly beneath his signature, following his request to be received with his eldest daughter and company in tow.

Jon sighed and rubbed his hand over his beard, eyes skimming over the parchment. He'd been scorned most of his life by pretty ladies and treated like a mangy dog if he attempted to approach them, but now he couldn't seem to be a more eligible bachelor.

Most wanted the position more than they wanted him; to be the new Queen of the North. He idly wondered if he could ever come to care for a woman he met this way.

"And 'ave you heard of the Bowmans, Ser Davos?" he asked. He needed to know what type of family, beyond their sigils and words, Lady Alara woul come from.

"Aye," the Onion knight said tentatively as he sat his own, unmentioned letter down before the candlelight, "and from what I understand, Lord Bowman has at least 500 bannermen, and the people speak highly of Lady Alara. I've never seen her myself, therefore I canna speak of her beauty nor countenance, but I do know that she is Lord Bowman's favorite child. Renly Baratheon once made an offer of marriage and was turned away merely because rumors persisted of his…" he paused, clearing his throat to attempt delicacy and finished weakly with, "extramarital affairs."

The fire in the room roared with the silence that followed. Lord Bowman had turned away a man who was closely tied for succession to the Iron Throne. This action spoke legions to Jon about the type of man he was and what he aspired to. A marriage for elevated status wouldn't simply do if he thought the man incapable of respecting his daughter as she deserved. Lord Bowman wanted security for Lady Alara, but not at the cost of her happiness.

Jon had already spent time with two other ladies who's hands had been offered to him, but they were very demure women with whom he'd found nothing in common with. Though he had tried very hard to forge a connection to each of them, he hadn't been able to imagine having a family with either. In the end, he'd been forced to gently turn them both away.

 _Sansa had come to him privately after the idea was first entertained._ _"Jon, dont treat your marriage as just an alliance. Your happiness does matter - King or not. Promise me you'll consider your options. If you cannot close your eyes at night and imagine her beside you for the rest of your days, do not marry her."_

Jon had felt the weight of her words, and they echoed through his mind again now. He'd agreed with her and vowed that he must be able to grow to care for the woman he would make his bride. It didn't need to be true love, but their union couldn't be viewed as a chore either.

"I'll send word back to Lord Bowman," said Jon, "and have him ride to Winterfell."

* * *

Alara's arse was aching something fierce. Long distance riding would do that to a woman's flesh, no matter how often she rode. Her fingers, nose, ears, and toes were all nearly blistered with frost, but she continued onward without complaint.

Caravans followed behind the mounted party, carrying gifts, wheat, steel and her own clothing. She and her father's company were five days onto the Kingsroad and would arrive at the gates of Winterfell before nightfall. Though the days grew shorter and ever more grey since winter had come, her father estimated they would be received before dinner. A thick snow began to fall mid-journey, causing snowflakes to catch upon her eyelashes.

 _"I wouldn't bless a marriage between you and an unworthy man," her father said when the subject of his offer to Jon Snow had brought horror to her face._

 _"Him being a bastard will have nothing to do with you nor your children. He's been elevated beyond the names of houses; you will be Queen, Alara. You will want for naught."_

The people had crowned Jon Snow their King – there would be no debasement in becoming his wife. Even if there had been, truthfully, she would not have minded; all that mattered was the man himself. All her life she had enjoyed great personal freedom and greatly feared its stifling by a man who could neither love nor respect her.

She had never been a girl who had dreamed of a marriage to knights or princes. In fact, until she had been her father's only unwed daughter, she hadn't thought seriously of a marriage for herself at all. Her family had been so large that she never knew a moment of boredom; each brother and sister had kept her life full of laughter.

As the eldest girl at nineteen years of age, and with each of her younger sisters having been married off long before her ( _though granted, to lesser known houses and loveless unions_ ), Alara had begun to feel a great loneliness creep into her soul. And yet, as Lord Bowman's most beloved daughter, he had been scrupulous; had even turned away both Southern and Northern lord's offers in the past, choosing instead to wait for a man he felt she could come to love.

 _"No, Alara," Lord Bowman had told her at 13 when he had turned away her first proposal, "we will wait for a man who is truly worthy."_

To her father, there could be no more worthy man for his daughter than the King in the North.

 _"Jon Snow could be the man for you," her father had said when he'd reiterated his promise. "I've heard him to be good and kind." He'd kissed her forehead lovingly, then said, "I know that, given the opportunity, you will grow to care for him - and he for you.'_

Each stride they took towards the north placed her ever closer to a future she had never prepared herself to face.

When a horn blew to announce her arrival, her heart thundered like the hooves of her stallion. When the Stark stronghold came into view, she nearly pulled her horse to a stop to take in the enormity of its presence.

Winterfell was nothing like her family's home, Arch Keep. The massive wooden lodges that had always seemed so vast and great to her with it's large, looking carvings and lovely engravings throughout was now forever small and young compared to this giant, ancestral castle nestled among the hills. A heavy with snow sat along the arches and foreboading stacks of white smoke rose from its many towers, reaching high to blend with the clouds that gathered to mute the sun. It eminated a unique force, and as the Stark banner whipped against a strong wind, the sight filled her heart with an unfamiliar feeling. Gods, the man that may soon be her _husband_ was waiting for her in there.

* * *

After their hard journey from the Stony Shore they were greeted with shouts as the gates of Winterfell opened for their arrival. Alara sat deeply into her saddle and extended into a lengthy trot as they passed under the ledge and finally evened out into a hot walk within the courtyard. A stable boy rushed to her and her father's horses, grabbing the loosened reins from their hands so they could dismount.

Though stiff and cold, she still managed to slide from her seat and land on the balls of her feet steadily. Nearly immediately, before she could get her barrings, a young girl had her by the elbow and began to steer her inside. She introduced herself as they walked, "Lady Alara, I am Ireyne - one of Lady Sana's handmaidens – and if you will come with me, we can begin preparations so that you may be suitable for the feast."

Alara looked over her shoulder for her father's gaze, her but he was currently detained with who appeared to be an old friend. Her father clapped the shoulder of an unknown man and spoke jovially, eyes crinkled with laughter and memories, and he never once looked her way.


	2. The Two of Us

Alara had been bathed and dressed by strangers. It had been a first for her, for Lord Bowman had always maintained the same house servants throughout her entire life. Lady Sansa's maids had tried their best to soothe her with small talk, sensing from her tense body language the depth of her discomfort, but despite their kindness she continued to feel naked long after she had been clothed.

Her leather riding breeches and furs had been exchanged for a form-fitting, high-collared sky blue dress. About her shoulders she had been shrouded with a heavy white fox fur cloak, while her neckline was delicately embroidered in bright stitching of chestnut and gold horses. Her sleeves and bodice were lined with a soft grey wool and helped her maintain a semblance of body heat. Whomever had crafted this dress had spent a great amount of their skill upon it.

Her brown hair had been brushed with oils until it shone like mahogany, its little traces of red making their appearance beneath the firelight. The maids had painstakingly braided a crown about her head and left the rest to fall over her shoulders.

When they had finished the group of girls steered her before a mirror, encouraging her to take in the enormity of their work. Alara stared back at a stranger for nearly a minute until she recognized herself. She'd spent so much time in the saddle, and subsequently in her riding breeches, that she had forgotten the shape her own body took when it was confined within a tightly laced dress.

Her heavy-lidded green eyes were wide with surprise, and her pale skin seemed to glow from the lotion that had been applied to her wind-chaffed face. She looked every bit the lady she was expected to be.

Alara was led through the castle and given back to her father, who's black bearded face beamed at the sight of her.

"You look lovely," Lord Bowman said proudly, patting her gloved hands with his own.

His words steeled her, and aided by the quiet strength of his presence she was able to swallow the bubble of nervousness that had grown in her throat.

The feast had just begun when they parted the crowd. Houses from all over the North sat at tables against the walls, talking and laughing loudly as music played. Servants twirled in from every angle, filling up emptied tankards and passing out loaves of bread. The feast was not overly done, having spared the smoked meat for the depths of winter, but it was adequate for the occasion.

Alara walked proudly forward, step in time with her father's, her arm intertwined with his own. A long table was placed at the head of the hall, where two lone people sat apart from the throng. The same man whom her father had greeted at the gate was bent at the waist over the table, speaking quietly to a young, dark headed man whom she could only guess to be the king. His eyes roved from his conversation and met her own, and Alara swore her heart stopped and restarted all in one swift breath.

Jon Snow was unexpectedly handsome. This detail was left out of her briefing, for it wouldn't have mattered to her father if he was or was not. The king had dark, soulful eyes and a concerned expression that pinched his blackened brows together. Most of his hair was pulled back to the nape of his neck, but she could tell it was as black and curly as his short beard. The brown and tan furs on his shoulders were massive, attached to his broad torso by criss-crossed hide straps, and he was dressed in finely boiled leather armor. He was as young as she, she realized with a start, but there was an air of age about him that she had only ever encountered with battle-weary men.

The standing man moved to announce them.

"Your grace, may I present to you Lord Jakor of house Bowman, and his daughter, Lady Alara."

* * *

Having called his daughter one of the great beauties of the seven kingdoms turned out not to have been boastful at all. Lady Alara was all high cheekbones and pert, peach colored lips. She was slightly shorter than Sansa, he estimated, and wider through the hips and bust. She had a keen look to her bright green eyes and he could not seem to take his graze away from her.

Lord Bowman bowed before him while Alara gave a delicate curtsy. He moved to stand and greet them, but Sansa stayed him with a hand on his leg beneath the table. Her face was tight with a polite smile and he knew she meant for him to stay seated.

 _"Kings do not rise for Lords and Ladies_ ," she turned her to him and whispered.

Jon gave a slight nod and forcibly turned his attention to Alara's father to address him. "Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Bowman. I hope that you and your daughter find your stay here comfortable."

"Your majesty," the large lord said, bending his knee. The hall quieted immediately at this action, all ears now turned to their conversation. "I thank you for receiving us. House Bowman offers their allegiance." He looked to Jon, his ruddy, aged face full of furor. "We know of no king but the King in the North!"

"The King in the North!" the hall cheered, cups thundering against wooden tables in agreement.

Jon allowed a slight smile and inclined his head so that the lord may rise. "I am honored to have House Bowman at my side. Together, will stand united against throughout the long winter."

Lord Bowman stood and took his daughters hand, bringing Jon's attention back to her.

"Your majesty," he boomed, quieting the hall once more, "I ask that you consider Lady Alara's hand in marriage. There can be no better lady suited for your side. She is the pride of both my house and the entirety of the Rills. A true northern queen for a northern king!

The hall cheered again in agreement. Jon gave them all a sweeping glance, then finally looked Alara in the eye.

A quiet, steely confidence stared back at him as well as sincere curiosity. She did not appear horrified by the prospect or at all reluctant to their union. Perhaps...perhaps she even found him handsome. A small smile even began to curl at the corner of her lips, as if she had heard his thoughts, and he returned it.

"And I ask that you give me three days of courtship, Lord Bowman, and thereafter I will be able to give you my answer."

"Of course, my king," said her father, bowing once more.

* * *

Sansa had purposefully scheduled a ride for their first outing. She was meant to accompany them to act as a chaperone, but found herself feeling conveniently "unwell" this morning and unable to join them.

Jon left his quarters early and found Alara already tending to her stallion in the stables. The horse was massive and well-muscled, black and fierce in appearance, its mane long and well groomed. It pawed the straw floor as she brushed his dusty coat, longing to be turned out despite the snow and cold.

Alara felt his gaze on her back, but she purposefully ignored him, letting him have the illusion of watching her in secret. She spoke aloud to Hafton in an attempt to soothe him. "Easy, boy. We'll go out soon. Would you like that?" Hafton pawed the ground again, switching his weight from each hind foot. Regardless of the weather, northern horses needed daily work to stay safe and sane.

"May I join you, my lady?" the king finally asked, announcing his presence. She didn't startle at his raspy voice, but instead looked to him and bowed with a coquette grin.

"Why, your grace, I thought you'd never ask," she teased.

Jon gifted her with a smirk that made her heart melt. Gods, but the man was handsome!

Once their horses were saddled Jon had insisted on holding Hafton's head for her as she mounted, attempting to be a gentleman. When they were both on horseback Alara set them forward into steady pace. Her stallion was very hot in nature, leaning heavily into the bit and tossing his head when she refused to let him move out of a contained walk. Jon watched the two of them from the corner of his eye, but she remained in control and calm.

"At what age did you learn to ride, Lady Alara?" That was a safe topic to begin with.

"The earliest I can remember was from age four, highness," she replied. "My father tells me that I was in the saddle from the time that I could walk, but my own memory can only take me back so far."

"Please," he bade, "call me Jon. These titles are new to me."

"Well," Alara laughed, moving her stallion closer to his own, "I would hardly be viewed a proper lady if I was overheard calling my king by his given name."

"Aye that's true," he agreed, "but perhaps...Just when it's the two of us?"

 _The two of us._ The very words were intimate, even if they weren't meant to be. It brought about images in her mind that gentle women weren't supposed to entertain; of sweat pooling, blissful sighs and kissing mouths.

Alara cleared her throat and adjusted her fur cloak, bringing it tighter around her waist. She looked away from Jon to clear her head before dutifully replying, "If you wish."

* * *

The sun was shining brightly for it to be the beginning of winter. It caught Alara's wavy hair in its rays, causing red streaks to burn through the deep, rich browns. Though he hadn't thought it possible, she was more beautiful outside with her porcelain skin flushed and wide eyes sparkling with adventure in their depths.

She was not Ygritte, but she was very playful in the same way she had been. Not afraid to tease him nor (as he learned when she suddenly took off at a gallop) challenge him to shake loose his restraint.

Her stallion was undeniably faster than his own, but he was close enough to her to keep up. She threw him a look over her shoulder, laughing at the disappointment on his face when he realized that he wouldn't be able to match Hafton's strides.

This didn't feel like a forced courting; if anything, it felt like...freedom. He had his home again, and even a small part of his family. More shockingly, he had the opportunity to even begin a new one.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Alara shouted gleefully, "Your mount appears to be as old and tired as you, Jon. Should I wait for you up here on the hill?"

Though he didn't rise to the bait, Jon couldn't help but grin.


	3. Certainties

It was an hour till noon when they decided to head back toward Winterfell. Most of their time had been spent in companionable silence, her presence at his side slowly becoming as natural as that of old friends. They each let the horses walk along on a loose rein, necks stretched out and pace purposefully slow; neither of them wanting to return too quickly.

"I never thought I'd see Winterfell again," Jon admitted quietly, his voice grating with the effort he made to begin the conversation. Alara looked to him and encouraged him to continue with her attention. "I'd given up my home for the Night's Watch and became a man there, but when I was a lad, all I'd wanted was to be like my brother Robb. To be a Lord who would someday hold titles – to even have the small amount of respect he commanded. It's...wrong that I should be in his place now. I was no' prepared for this life like he was."

Alara pulled her stallion closer to him until her riding breeches scratched along his leathers and her horse's quarters pushed against his own. Her dark brows were drawn, the look on her face concerned. "But your brother **was** King, Jon," she told him softly. "It is your turn to lead now, and there should be no guilt carried with it. The people chose you; you never asked for the North to be yours. You know as well as I do that, in the end, the people do not care about gentle graces and airs - they only want a ruler who has their interests at heart. And that **is** **_you_**."

With Alara he'd felt like child again as he chased her through the woods, his worries left behind. She'd shown him her playful side, but now Jon saw her strength; how it was forged by care and hardened by loyalty. Alara spoke with a conviction that belayed her age, and her words were full of confidence in him. He only hoped that he could be worthy of such certainty.

"Aye," he said with difficulty, "but the long winter has come, and I don't how to ration our wheat and wood to last us through what may be the longest, deepest cold we have ever known. The army of the dead marches from north of the wall, all while Westeros scrambles among themselves, leaving everything and everyone completely vulnerable. As King, I'll be expected to see us through all of this."

Alara was surprised by his honesty. Men like Jon Snow didn't exactly bare their fears and feelings freely, let alone to virtual strangers. She understood, though; he was trying very subtly to convey the responsibility in which she would be expected to partake in, should they wed. As his wife, she would be expected to help him carry these burdens.

"Well, I can't say I've ever heard anyone say that life is easy," she teased weakly. Jon gave her a faint smile but continued to search her face for more of a reaction.

Alara sighed. "You may feel it, Jon, but you are not alone in this. Your sister will help guide you through what is expected, can easily teach you these politics. You have Ser Davos, the Knights of the Vale, and a Wildling army at your side. You have all the houses of the north behind you, willing to lay down their lives for what you are trying to accomplish. And soon," she finished quietly, "you'll have a wife to stand by you through it all."

Jon suddenly pulled his horse to a stop, frustrated that she hadn't recoiled the slightest from his words. "Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you? I can't even remember how many ladies have come forward in search of marriage to the King in the North, all looking to be the new Queen with no' a care for anything else. I can't afford to play these games! This isn't just a title you'll inherit; if I am expected to be the father of the realm, you will be its mother. Is that what you truly want?"

She halted and turned so that she could look him in the eye, her back stiff with tension. "I am here by the same motivation that has kept me going every single day of my life; for family and country, you grace."

"Your family? They could-" he began before Alara interrupted him sharply.

"I speak of **our** family, my King; the one we could have together if we are married."

Speechless, Jon stared at her. Nothing he said touched her steely morale.

"Doesn't it bother you," he nearly whispered, "that I am not legitimized? That our children could come under scrutiny in the future because their father was a Snow? That an entire kingdom could wake up someday and declare all that we 'ave is not rightfully theirs and take it from them, leaving them to destitution – or worse? A King chosen by the people can be usurped by the people. If we survive the winter and the White Walkers, then that threat will still remain. Always!"

Alara bared her teeth in a snarl. "It doesn't bother me at all, Jon _Snow_ , not a gods damn bit! The people could sneer and call me the Bastard Queen for all I care – all I want - all I have ever wanted - is a man who is good, brave and kind, **and I know that** _you_ **are such a man**. If an attempt at usurpation comes, I **know** that you and I together can defend our family **and** this land. Why should I live in fear because of possibilities when faced with all these certainties? Why should you?"

Gods, this woman could not be argued with! She was as stubborn as a mule, could dispute any topic and find reason with her way. They sat in silence, staring at one another for long moments until Alara decided to turn her horse around and begin walking once more, leaving him stupefied in her wake.

* * *

 **Jon**

They reached Winterfell later than anticipated. Shouts went up inside the courtyard at their arrival, each guard alerting the other that the King had returned, but instead of waiting for stable hands to come relieve their horses Jon led them past the throng of servants that gathered and into the barn himself. They weren't followed after such a blatant dismissal, the people slowly dispersing after their hopes of gossip fodder were denied.

Alone again among the straw and hay with only the sound of snorting horses, Jon slid from his saddle and reached out with one hand for her to take. She stared at him for a brief moment before accepting it. Her hand was small and cold, but she gripped him tightly and leaned into his support as she jumped down from her stallion's back, trusting him to stabilize her. She landed gracefully on her feet, her knees bending to absorb the impact, but did not let go of Jon's hand.

Her hand was small and cold, but she gripped him hard with surprising strength. She didn't hesitate to lean on him for support as she jumped down from her stallion's back, making him bend against her weight to stabilize her fall. She landed gracefully on her feet, her knees bending to absorb the impact, but did not let go of Jon's hand.

She tilted her chip up to meet his gaze. Gods, but she was so small compared to him – his shoulders alone were wider than any part of her body. He could lift the entire weight of her with little effort, could even hurt her if he didn't take care. He stared down at her face, so fair and achingly lovely, with her high cheekbones, heart-shaped lips, and rounded almond eyes. She was close enough for him to notice so many things about her, like the yellow rings around her irises and how they slowly bled into an emerald green, or the small mole above her right eyebrow that accented her expressions like a painting.

Her mouth was slightly open, making her breaths frost between them. His eyes lingered there for precious seconds, the urge to touch his lips with her own assaulting him. Unconsciously he shifted closer, the furs on her shoulders brushing his, a warmth building between them with their mingled body heat. Her hand curled tighter into his own, slowly bringing him down to her. She was so close – another inch and his chest would touch her own...

A man cleared his throat, breaking the spell that woven between the two of them.

"Forgive me," came Ser Davos' reluctant brogue, "but the council awaits your grace."

* * *

 **Alara**

When dinner came Alara sat at a table near the King with her father. She had changed from her riding apparel to another constricting gown, its deep green complimentary with the color of her eyes. He did not ask for the details of their ride that morning; truly, he asked her nothing at all, but instead spoke heatedly with a red-bearded Wildling and occasionally burst out in raucous, drunken laughter, leaving her to her own thoughts.

Jon was staring at her, his dark eyes intense, his expression pensive. She knew that had they been left together but a moment longer in that stable he would have kissed her. She had desperately wanted him to just that - had been silently begging him to forget himself. That moment had been as inevitable as the seasons; they were being pushed together by something far more powerful than she could understand.

She thought of Cayde and the heartbreak they had experienced when they had been torn apart. She had loved him - might even still, to this day - and yet what they had couldn't compare to the way Jon made her feel after one gallop through the woods. A part of her was terrified by the magnitude of it.

Her breath hitched every time they made eye contact. When she didn't return his gaze, she could feel it burning across her body, making liquid warmth pool in her belly and rest between her thighs. His mind was in a similar area of thought, but lust wasn't a unique component in their situation. Jon was a thoughtful man and she knew his urges wouldn't drive him to make a quickened decision when it came to their marriage. She had two more days until she would receive an answer, and she would wait with baited breath until that day.

* * *

 **Jon**

"She's seen you staring, Jon," said Sansa slyly as she twirled her wine glass before her lips. The action reminded him of how much time she had spent with Cersei Lannister. "And so have we all. Did you enjoy your ride together this morning?"

Jon found himself flushing under his sister's scrutiny and finally looked away from Alara and back to his meal.

"It was nice," he managed to say. He kept the fact that he had very nearly kissed Alara firmly to himself, certain that it would provide Sansa further reason to press for their union harder. None would make this decision but him, and he wanted to keep his sister's, and Ser Davos', opinions on the matter to a minimum

"I think she's beautiful," Sansa continued, pressing him to say more. When he refused to offer her anything, she prodded, "Don't you think so?"

Jon sighed as he forcefully cut his ham into quarters. "Yes, o' course I do. I'd have to be blind not to."

"I should make time to meet her tomorrow," she mused, "if she's to be my new sister."

Her teasing finally drew a dry laugh from him. "Do as you like," Jon said, "but I've only known her for a day. That's not enough to for us to build a marriage on, so I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"We'll see, then. What's she like?"

"Bold," Jon said as he stabbed his fork through a potato. "Intelligent."

"I like her already," Sansa chuckled.

 _"_ _As do I,"_ he thought to himself.


	4. Not Yet

The fire in Alara's guest chambers had begun to die down to a comforting crackle, the remaining wood blackened from the flames that had already eaten at it for hours. She stared at the hearth from beneath a fur blanket, her body clenched tightly in a fetal position in an attempt to maintain warmth, her mind racing like an anxious mare. Though it was well past midnight and the residents of Winterfell had long ago retired to their beds, sleep continued to allude her.

In two days her life had the potential to change drastically. If Jon asked her to marry him, wedding preparations would have to begin at once so that they could be wed within a fortnight. Afterward, she would never be expected to spend her nights alone again.

She wasn't ignorant of what would be required of her. She'd been educated about sex by a Septa and had learned that it was a marital duty with the sole purpose of procreation, and yet...when she imagined Jon's hands touching under her chemise, Alara couldn't bring forward the sense of detachment she'd been told would occur. In fact, all she felt was the exact opposite – invested with a deep amount of interest that made her body unnaturally hot and her stomach quiver with anticipation.

She knew he'd be gentle; that wasn't really a concern. Already Alara trusted him to take care with her, for he had demonstrated great consideration with her numerous times on their outing."He might even be able to make it enjoyable," her mind whispered treacherously. She had no doubt he'd try, at least.

Babes would come shortly after. She couldn't think of a worse time to become pregnant with naught but winter in the foreseeable future, but every king needed an heir. Alara's hand roved to her flat stomach as she tried to imagine the life her son or daughter would have.

The great war was coming, and even princes and princesses could fall victim to its horrors. But out of all the men in the seven kingdoms, she knew Jon would protect her and their children better than anyone else. She couldn't ask for a better man in these circumstances.

But what if he didn't want her as his queen? What then? She'd go home and likely die a spinster if the winter didn't take her, she thought darkly, as no lord existed that could be so agreeable in her father's eyes after the King. From one extreme to the other, the roads before her diverged sharply from this point onward. It was enough to keep any woman up at night.

* * *

Jon took his time with the razor the next morning, finding himself caring about his appearance for the first time since he was a lad. He trimmed his beard, evening out the bristles and whiskers, and shaved away the stray hairs that grew on the high of his cheeks and along his neck. He wanted to look clean and neat for his visit with Alara today, as he was expected to give her a tour through the length of Winterfell after breakfast.

He looked at himself in the mirror after he was done, attempting for a moment to see himself through a lady's eyes. The long cut through his eyebrow had almost healed now, but would leave a nice scar behind to mar him. He'd been considered handsome by others before, though now that he was marked he had to wonder if that could still be considered true. Did highborn ladies find disfigured prospects appealing?

Jon had a feeling that Alara was attracted to him regardless of his maiming. She didn't seem like the type of woman to be put off by superficial things, and yet the self-conscious boy that had survived the Knight's Watch deep within the recesses of his mind and had even returned from death peaked out from behind his eyes and brought his hand up to tentatively stroke the mark with a gloved hand.

Angered by the insecurities he thought he'd long ago abandoned, threw his razor down onto a table with resolve hardening his face. He had greater things to be concerned about.

* * *

He found Alara after breakfast when she was caught up in a lighthearted conversation with Sansa in the Godswood. A steady blanket of snow was falling, but the two women seemed determined to make the day as sunny as possible with their warm smiles and occasional laughter.

Jon's entire body tensed when she caught his eyes. Today her hair was completely free from restraint, falling across her temple and curling down to the top of her breast. Most ladies of the north dressed in darker colors of grey and blue, but today Alara was clothed in a gown of deep forest green and a brown underskirt.

"Good morning," he called out.

"Jon!" cried Sansa in surprise, " **There** you are; we were just talking about you."

He stopped and turned to Alara, his brows pinched with concern even as a smile curled across his lips. Gods, he hoped Sansa hadn't been sharing stories of their childhood together. "Erm...Nothing too terribly bad, I hope?"

"Not at all your grace," she laughed.

"Ah," said Jon in relief, "Then I'm glad to hear it." After an awkward hesitation, he extended his arm for Alara to take.

"Would you like to begin your tour of Winterfell, my lady?"

She nodded and said her goodbyes to Sansa before wrapping both hands around his forearm. He brought her tight against his side, seeking to protect her from the biting winds that blew through the woods.

"I had just stepped into the Godswood when I found Lady Sansa at prayer," she told him while tracing the stitch work on his leather bracers. "Do you also adhere to the old ways?"

Jon's lips twitched into a weak smile before he turned to stare into the surrounding woods. "I was raised to be true to the Old Gods," he said softly, "but after wha' I've seen – and wha' I **haven't** seen – I have too many doubts to call myself truly devout. The Old Ways are a part of me, though, as with any Northerner. Always will be."

He was purposefully keeping his death - and subsequent rebirth - to himself. Jon hadn't even considered how Alara might view that particular detail for he had tried not to dwell long upon it himself. And yet, the subject of religion was closely tied to the concept of death and the afterlife, therefore it naturally lead him back to that corner of his mind of which he'd tried to avoid.

Helpless but to revisit memory, his thoughts turned distant; the horror of waking up on that table, cold and naked, completely alone with stab wounds gaping as his shriveled lungs struggled to expand again after passing days unfilled with air...

Alara gripped his arm tightly, bringing him back to the present with her. He stopped and turned slightly to stare down at her pretty face, her large green eyes full of concern. She was wearing that serious look again, the one she had showed him during their talk the day before.

"I can't pretend to understand what your life has been like, Jon," she said softly. "I've lived all my life in relative comfort; have never seen war nor experienced loss. A life beyond the wall could change any man's view of the world, but it hasn't stolen what is good in you. That's all that matters."

Her faith in him - though certainly premature due to the length of their acquaintance – made him smile. After his death, Jon had come back changed - but in what way he couldn't say. Alara was innocent to all things dark and terrible, but if she felt that goodness still existed within him he felt inclined to believe her.

When they approached the stairs to the first tower, Jon felt compelled to assist her up them. Alara smiled and leaned heavily against him, surprising him as put her entire weight onto his arm and made him flex to hold her steady. She and he both knew she didn't need the assistance up the ice-slicked stoneway, but she had accepted it anyway, intent on teasing him for his courteous ways.

Servants and soldiers passed them by as he led them through the halls, stopping to bow before the king and - just as frequently - admire the Lady in his company. She positively radiated under their attentions, charming them with her sweet smiles and respectful countenance.

A decrepit woman approached them along the way, her joints withered and knocking together like iron pots beneath her tattered dress, and took Alara's hand within her own. Jon knew the cook, Bethally, was beginning to turn a bit senile, therefore when she bowed and simpered, "Your grace, the king couldn't have picked a finer wife! You remind me of myself at that age," then followed her impertinent statement with a cheeky elbow in Alara's side before hobbling away with a smirk, he wasn't nearly as surprised as she was.

"Surely she doesn't think you've made your decision so early!" Alara exclaimed.

Jon laughed deeply and threw his head back. "Bethally is **very** old," he explained. "She forgets quite a bit, including what is...proper. She's likely of the belief that we're well past our third day of courtship and have already been married."

Alara leaned into his shoulder and laughed as well, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth and muffle the sound from travelling. "I hope I'm as salacious as she is with advanced age. To be able to say and do what you want - the freedom she must feel!"

"Well, I hadn't quite thought of it that way," said Jon as his laughter died down to a smile. He stared down at the top of her head nestled against his furs and continued, "but I imagine it would be. Everyone makes excuses for the things she does; maybe it's one of the few joys she maintains."

" **If** I live through the long night," Alara said playfully, "I think I might adopt that kind of attitude. The threat of endless winter has made me evaluate the way things function, and a lot of the things that the highborn focus on aren't what will hold you through 'till the end. They're pointless rituals and boundaries, mostly, but having a spirit like Bethally; that will hold you through a great deal of darkness, I imagine."

Although it was typical for a northerners' humor to be bleak like this, it didn't sit well with Jon to hear Alara speak of dying. It...unsettled him. The thought of her brilliant green eyes distant and glassy, frozen in horror like Ygritte's had been when she had drifted away in his arms made his chest tighten. As he lead them through the training yard, Jon couldn't help but ask, "Wha' makes you think you won't survive?"

"Oh, the White Walkers fall first and foremost," she answered, leaving his side to toy with an icy target dummy stuffed with straw, "but my father says this winter will be the longest, coldest yet. We have supplies to last several years, but my greatest fear is that we'll reach the end of those and be forced to slaughter the horses for food – which would be our very last resort - and if it continues beyond that...well," she gave a short, humorless laugh, "starvation isn't the easiest way to go, I've heard."

The small bit of fear in her voice made him clench his fists. He could spare her this – was beginning to feel compelled to do so. "No," he declared, "that won't happen."

"How do you know?" Alara asked, plucking an icy sprig of straw from the dummy while avoiding his gaze. "Neither you nor I are old enough to remember what winter truly feels like, and this one is bound to be the greatest hardship we've ever faced. You said yourself that you had these same doubts - it's a possibility that we must accept."

Jon strode over to her quickly, crowding her smaller body with his own. Her breath left her in a gasp of surprise, her eyes wide and full of confusion as she stared up at him. He had never invaded her space so blatantly. Needing to comfort her, Jon reached out to cup the back of her head.

"I won't let that happen," he promised passionately, fire burning behind his dark eyes.

* * *

Alara swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and furrowed her forehead. "I'm not your burden to bear."

Jon scoffed. "You're no' a burden, Alara," he insisted, "and as my wife I would-"

"But I'm **not** your wife," she interjected. She'd allowed him to dote on her, had even played his lady as they strolled about Winterfell on his arm, but he needed to be reminded that nothing was solidified between them, that she wasn't **really** his to make these promises to.

"No, you're not," Jon said tightly, staring down at her lips with a pained expression. His eyes were so dark and consuming, she felt like she'd catch fire from the flames that burned behind them."Not **yet**."

Her heart started to beat faster. Did he mean what she thought he might?

* * *

He placed his free hand on her waist and palmed the curve there, wishing he was free of his gloves to better feel the giving flesh of her body. He used their position to bring her closer, pressing her chest tightly to his own and walking forward to push her flush against the training dummy. She didn't protest at all.

Tentatively - as though she were reaching out to touch a wild animal - she took one hand and cupped his elbow, then slid down his forearm to rest at the thick bone of his wrist. Emboldened by his lack of resistance, with the other hand she clutched tightly onto his cloak and pulled him down to her with a swift jerk.

Alara rose to the tips of her toes, seeking his lips with hooded eyes. Jon let loose the breath he'd been holding and caught her mouth in the space of a heartbeat. Gods, how badly he'd wanted this.

He forced himself to kiss her tenderly at first; she was so small and delicate beneath his hands, he feared he'd scare her away. He focused instead on breathing in the scent of her skin and working his lips over hers, sucking at the peach colored flesh until she released a quivering sigh and began to melt beneath his hands. He crushed her to him then, devouring her mouth from top to bottom, readjusting his angle and slipping out his tongue to wet the slit of her peach colored lips.

She released a small moan at this and Jon lost his fucking mind. She opened to him fully, using the tip of her tongue to stroke his own with no hesitation. Her mouth was so wet and warm - a sharp contrast to the cold chill of her lips - and he felt himself harden in response to it, his body drawing taught like a bow string.

He worried about her feeling him through his breeches and being scared by his intense reaction, so he tilted his hips further away from her soft body and began to pull away.

They broke apart and gasped for air, but no sooner had Jon refilled his lungs, he started a wet trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of her pale throat. She tipped her head back for him, arching into is touch and seeking more, but he forced himself to finally back away when he reached her collarbones.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself, but his head was completely filled with Alara; her breath fogging from her swollen lips, her delicate hands stroking the fur of his cloak, the soft sound of her panting... "Fuck," he hissed, kissing her deeply once more.

* * *

Her heart was about to leap out of her throat. Alara had never been kissed before, but Jon had led the way magnificently. His tongue was insistent, and the feeling of his touch exquisite, making the muscles in her lower stomach quiver. Despite the chill of snowfall that surrounded them, a liquid warmth had pooled between her thighs that was wrought from his lips against hers.

She had wanted him to continue and her body cried out in protest when he began to pull away, putting space between them. Gods, this man was making her act like a wanton whore, but she couldn't bring herself to regret anything. She'd never known a connection like this could exist, and now that she'd had a taste of it – or, more accurately, a taste of him – she realized she'd been withering away without it. Would she lose herself in addiction to this man?

They weren't in love - Alara was well enough grown to know that tender feelings between married couples took time to grow to bear such fruit – but it would be so easy for them to **begin** to be. There was an easy rhythm in conversation between the two of them, which was more than many husbands and wives could say, and they **clearly** had no issues with sexual chemistry. Could it be enough? They had only another day to find out, and it was such a small amount of time...


	5. Wanted

**Author's note:** Thank you all SO much for your feedback and patience! I know this has been a few month's coming, but you have kept me going. I am in the process right now of re-working the previous chapters - increasing word count, depth and fleshing out character plot lines. I will also be editing it to appear as GRRM wrote his own stories; from alternating third person. Due to the advice of a friend, I am focusing on completing up to 10 chapters before I release the re-working, as it is more time consuming and the main culprit in my hiatus. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

* * *

 **Jon**

It was later on in the day that he lead her into kitchens. The servants were all busy at work beginning their preparations for dinner, zooming from one end of the room to the other, balancing plates and swapping ingredients while shouting out orders. One hearth housed a great cauldron that simmered with a delicious smelling rabbit and potato stew while the other held a boar on its spear for roasting over the open flame, its meat dripping juices down into the burning coals. A single table sat in the middle of the room where four older women were kneading dough with weathered hands, its surface covered in flour and scattered with rolling pins. The combined noise of their indistinct chatter and the roar of the fires was immense, and yet their entrance through the heavy wooden doors caused them all to immediately pause their actions.

Alara dropped his arm and came to stand at his side, addressing the room at large with a polite smile. She was able to break the tension with her body language alone; hands clasped at her stomach with her back curled inwards to relax her posture, eyes crinkling slightly from the curl of her lips. Her entire demeanor conveyed that she was not a threat to anyone around her and it soothed the nerves of the servants after a few sparse moments. One by one they filtered by them to resume their duties, their faces brimming with curiosity as they passed by.

Jon knew the kitchen was one of the hotbeds of gossip in Winterfell and that none of the younger girls had been able to meet the mysterious guest that had arrived two days ago. They inspected Alara in the most indiscreet of ways; drinking in the color of her hair, her closeness to his side, and the style of her dress. She was the most interesting thing to have happened to Winterfell since it's retaking, therefore their extensive regard of her was understandable. He worried they might overwhelm her, however, when they began to offer her tastes of the dinner they'd just begun – even tempting her with some of Sansa's coveted lemon cakes if she had a craving for them – but she took nothing, fending off plates with a shake of her head.

"I should _really_ save my appetite for dinner," she said even as she eyed the food and rubbed her hands across her stomach.

Bethally - the older cook from earlier - saw through her deflection and came forward, weaving through the crowd with a hunchbacked look of determination on her weathered face. The woman took Alara's hand again, but this time she fisted a single buttered roll into her palm and then abruptly turned away, giving the Lady no time to insist she take it back.

Jon could tell Alara was frustrated with the predicament the old crone had placed her in, but only because he was watching her very, very closely. Her mouth tightened in and her eyebrows arched ever so slightly, but as soon as he blinked she had wiped her face of emotion. Would she risk looking ungrateful to what might be her own servants soon, despite Bethally's impertinence? It would establish to them the kind of queen she could be. Jon knew her well enough to surmise that she wouldn't, and he suspected that Bethally knew that as well, cunning old woman that she was.

At last a laugh erupted from her lips. "Thank you!" Alara called after her, biting into the roll with vigor. It was a demonstration of appreciation, but the action satisfied everyone but **him**.

When they had walked through the guard hall earlier Jon had distinctly heard her stomach rumble with hunger. He'd hoped that a trip through the kitchens would entice her to have a small lunch, but frustration welled inside him when she denied the food anyway. While the roll was better than nothing, he saw no reason for her to continue to refuse an early meal.

"Why will you no' take more?" he demanded, his voice low as he bent down to whisper in her ear.

"Because I don't want more," she replied blithely as she pat his arm with condescension.

Jon swore under his breath. This was like leading a horse to water. "I _heard_ your stomach growling like an angry wolf this morning. You alone won't eat all our reserves for winter – you can have wha'ever you like."

Alara looked away from him and to the servants, making sure they couldn't overhear their conversation before she playfully responded. "This may come as some surprise to you but I am _**quite** _ capable of waiting a few hours to eat another meal." She rolled her eyes at his concern and he felt his face burn to have his concern . "I doubt I'll die before dinner."

This stubborn woman! How could she reveal her fears to him about starvation and then deny food? Jon scowled at her but she responded to his ire by batting her eyelashes at him, a coy look spread upon her pretty face to temper him. When he continued to sulk, Alara nudged him with her hip, catching him off guard and effectively stopping his fouling mood in its tracks by making him crack a smile.

"Don't you worry about me," she told him as she turned away, "I won't be growing thin any time soon."

She moved forward through the room, leaving him trailing behind her like a little boy. He didn't mind however, choosing to take the opportunity to let his eyes discreetly sweep over the curves of her body as his thoughts turned to more impolite areas. Older women would have said she was built for child-bearing; wide of hip, her shape tapering in at the waist like the indentions of a pear, her chest ample and round. He thanked the old gods and the new that she'd never been denied two square meals a day because her body was divine. If she shed even a pound it would be a damn crime.

* * *

 **Alara**

She'd felt his eyes caressing her form and it made her ears burn. She secretly enjoyed his appreciative gazes; when others had undressed her with their eyes she'd felt like a cheap whore, yet when Jon thought he could discreetly do so it made her feel powerful. She imagined his face in her mind and it mirrored the heated look he'd given her before he kissed her in the courtyard; consuming and hungry, the look a man might give a woman before he made love to her. She'd known from the moment they met that the King had found her appealing but what was growing between them felt far deeper than lust. She threw him a look over her shoulder and he turned his eyes elsewhere, suddenly finding the tapestry above the fireplaces to be the most interesting thing in the room.

When Jon lead her down a set of twisting steps she had anticipated the warmth of the castle to leave her; instead, she was surprised to find that it remained much the same as it had in the First Keep, the temperature especially comfortable given the season. They passed beyond a large ironwood door, Jon pausing only to grab a glowing torch from along the walls to light the way and offer his arm to her once again.

"Where are we going?" she asked him curiously as she grasped his forearm and leaned against his shoulder, her eyes bouncing around the stones of what appeared to be an ancient catacomb. Shadows licked against the boot of her heels as they walked, the black empty shapes chased away by the intermittent firelight they carried with them. It was so unnaturally quiet that the very sound of footsteps echoed against the stone walls, the sound ominous in the vast emptiness of the tunnel.

"Through the crypts of Winterfell," said Jon, his voice soft as though he would wake the dead.

Alara knew all of what had befallen House Stark and therefore she was well aware that the death of his youngest half-brother had occurred not but a month ago. This wound for Jon was fresh and still painful; she felt the tension of the topic radiate from him from the tightness of his muscles to the thin line of his lips. She didn't press him further, choosing instead to remain respectful of his loss in silence. They came to the small statue of Rickon, its marble freshly carved and intricately detailed, the young boy's hair curly and tousled with eyes staring down blankly. Like each likeness beyond him, Rickon had been placed in a seated position, a small sword placed across his lap with a direwolf laid at his feet.

Alara wanted to say something to comfort him as he stared at his little brother but she had no words. She had never experienced real loss, could not compare her experiences with his own nor give guidance through his grief. Her mother had died before she could even love her, but the rest of her family had thankfully remained intact. Her father had told her that Jon had been inches away from Rickon's outstretched hands before Ramsay Bolton put an arrow through the boy's heart.

That monster had toyed with Jon, letting him ride out to rescue his little brother and purposefully causing him panic by missing his mark until the very last moment. Lord Bolton had wanted him to lose control and charge first, had manipulated him to do exactly that by preying on his need to protect his family. Jon's face was hard like stone, his grief warping into anger as he quickly passed Rickon by and moved further down, examining Robb and their father Eddard Stark's images instead.

"It's still warm down here," she commented quietly, observing the life-size effigies with somber respect.

"Aye," he said, "the hot springs beneath will us keep the castle that way even in the worst cold."

He looked so alone, standing there with such deep longing on his face. She couldn't imagine what it was like for him to be like to be back in his childhood home with both his father and brother's bodies now buried beneath it. Every place within its walls where a fond memory once was made would now be haunted by the ghost of his family's deaths. Each place of laughter would now bring him regret, and the man was morose enough already. Though it touched her that he had brought her here, she couldn't help but wonder what ran through his mind as his gaze turned to the statue of his late father.

Alara moved closer to him in reassurance. He didn't need to speak of the loss he felt, and she wouldn't broach it; she would simply be there with him among the remains of the people he might've been introducing her to had their lives not been taken from them.

"Lord Stark would have been pleased to meet you," he told Alara. "I don't think he ever imagined I'd find a Lady that would want to marry me."

More silence passed at this and she squeezed him closer to her, gently stroking the fur of his cloak.

"My father told me Lord Stark had been an honorable man," Alara finally said, looking from Ned's likeness and back to Jon, "and that you are a great deal like him. I doubt he would be surprised at your circumstances. He would simply be proud that he had raised you well."

He gave her a weak smile - as though he felt his father would disagree? - but said nothing more. She could tell he didn't want to linger here, thinking of all that he had lost, so instead she gently steered them toward another set of stairs that lead down to the plots of his long dead ancestors, who's memory was more distant and less painful to revisit.

* * *

 **Jon**

He'd laughed many times since they had left the crypt. Alara had a knack for finding a way to make him smile, even when she wasn't teasing him. Jon should have parted ways with her hours ago but he kept finding new hallways to guide her down in an attempt to make their time together last longer. He knew he'd looked like a fool all day, walking around with her on his arm and grinning from ear to ear as though he didn't have a care in the world, but he was grateful for the happiness her company brought him. After Ygritte's death and following his own he'd often wondered if he'd ever feel this way again, but Sansa had arrived at Castle Black and gave him a reason to try.

But time had caught up with them; the sun was already setting in the west, an inky blackness bleeding out into the sky and muting the scarce light he had to look into her eyes. "It's late," he sighed, bringing their journey to a halt in a deserted breezeway. "I should go and meet with my sister and Ser Davos. They'll be wanting to have a word with me, I imagine."

He purposefully held back from the details of what those words might be, certain that they would be centered around her and their possible marriage. It already unsettled him that their premature relationship was viewed as a necessity rather than a desire, and he hated to acknowledge it from its political standpoint, to give credence to the fact that Alara was only here because he had been made King in the North. It was infinitely more comfortable to imagine her as the lovely stranger he had come across on a ride through the woods than a woman he had one more day with to decide if he wanted to marry.

"Of course," she said softly, pulling away from his side and taking her warmth with her.

Jon felt the weight of an awkward pause rest in the length of the silence that followed and he blamed himself for it. Just hours ago he'd had Alara pressed tightly against him, her mouth spread open against his own, her sweet little moans like music in his ears as he ate at her lips. It was jarring to go from such an intimate act back to formalities and neither one of them knew how to do it gracefully. He wanted so badly to kiss her goodnight, to take her into his arms and grasp her hips against his, but he firmly resisted the urge. Alara was no Wildling; she believed in decorum. They were no longer in the heat of the moment where he could forget propriety and be excused for such behavior.

"Thank you," Alara said softly, "for taking me to see your family. I know how much they mean to you."

Jon's lips twitched weakly. He'd thought it only right to take her there. His father had told him that the burden of protecting a family could weigh heavily on a man's shoulders, and now it was one he sought to accept. That weight would be tenfold now as a King. His wife would need to be strong to help him bear royal burdens. Alara was thoughtful and kind, and when warranted she could be fierce and unyielding. She continued to show him that she knew exactly what was expected of her; with curious and adoring servants she was kind and patient, but with him she was not afraid to plant herself as firm as an oak. As his queen she could temper him and make him see reason when anger clouded his judgment, but as his wife she would be understanding and loving.

His instincts were normally very good and the more that he got to know her the more Jon felt that Alara had genuinely pure intentions for this marriage. Already she'd argued with him and teased him, and those were not the actions of a woman who was hiding how she really felt. The two other ladies he'd met had blithely agreed with every word he said and had been wholly without opinions of their own. More than being insipid, they had made it clear that the only thing they sought from their union would be marriage to a King. They had tried in vain hard to be the type of woman they thought he'd want versus the type of women that they actually were. Jon needed his wife to be an honest, intelligent woman and the north deserved integrity in his consort.

Alara was everything that he had been hoping for and more. There was no question as to his answer now but he intended to wait the extra day so that he could enjoy courting her as long as he could.

"I was thinking you might join me for my meeting tomorrow with the houses of the north," Jon said as he rubbed the stubble of his beard."I might need your voice of reason when I broach a difficult subject."

"Ah," she laughed, "time for politics already. Will it be your previously popular Wildling topic again?

Jon raised his brows and nodded. Her father must have relayed the most current events to her before she arrived, something he hadn't expected to extend beyond his crowning.

She sighed as though the idea pained her but said, "I think I will be able to manage myself in a room full of argumentative men."

Jon laughed. The women of the north were not unlike the Free Folk in their sense of determination to meet challenges head-on, which was a trait he admired. "Of that I have no doubt."

* * *

 **Alara**

"I've heard that the King has all **but** announced your marriage to you and his council," Lord Bowman told her proudly over dinner. His large gloved hand came down heavily on her head to stroke at her hair, the weight of the appendage making her nearly choke on the soup she was attempting to eat. "You will be _Queen_ , Alara. Ah, If your mother could but see you now..."

She closed her eyes and sighed, immediately dismissing her father's boastful claims in favor of pragmatism. "You only think this because it's the current gossip. We toured the castle together and were seen by many servants, who in turn have made their own assumptions. Nothing has been said yet to make me think that he is certain in one way or the other."

"That may be true," her father replied, "but you haven't heard _what_ has been said by these servants, daughter of mine."

Silence passed at this in which she expected him to explain his meaning, but Lord Bowman merely sat in contentment and turned his attentions to his meal. No one who came in contact with the man could escape his stories, but now he sat with information he meant to keep to himself?

Horror struck her like ice water slowly pouring down the back of her neck followed closely by a surge of panic. What if they had been seen kissing in the training yard? She looked around the hall for judgement from those gathered there but found none. The majority present were occupied among themselves; laughing, shouting, or deep in discussion. The servants were busy refreshing drinks and supplying food, her existence their least concern at the moment. In fact, out of the seventy odd gathered there the only eyes she found that strayed to her were Jon's.

Her fear slipped away as quickly as it had come. Openly staring at him was indiscreet and could reveal too much of her admiration but she felt strangely emboldened the longer she held onto his gaze.

If she believed the opinions of others then this man - this beautifully intense, honestly good man - was as good as her husband. Her stomach rolled into joyous knots at this idea, pressing low into her abdomen and bringing forward the same feeling that had spread when he'd taken her mouth, making her cross her legs tightly beneath the wooden table to contain it.

In her life she had wanted many things, but she couldn't remember wanting anything more than to be this man's wife.


End file.
